Disclosure
by Catalyst23
Summary: Earth learns of the Goa'uld. Apophis relies on Naunet to help him recover from his defeat. The Abydonians struggle to live under their oppressive masters. Skaara struggles to lead his band of disparate hopes. Darkness and failure permeate, with occasional beacons of light.
1. Lighting The Candle

**Paradigm Shift**

"My fellow Americans, my fellow inhabitants of Earth. I speak to you today not as the leader of a nation, but as a simple human being, for that is all that we can be in the face of a new threat. This is not a threat that attacks an ideology. This is not a threat that attacks a religion. This is not a threat that attacks a culture. This is a threat that attacks us all, as the human species. This is a threat that wishes nothing other than the destruction of human society, and the enslavement of mankind. I speak of an extraterrestrial threat, of aliens who wish for nothing more than our downfall.

"The details of this threat will be made absolutely clear in other media. Today, at this time, I can only outline what it is we face, together, as a species, as a planet. Humanity must come together, or surely we will be destroyed.

"In 1928 a device was found in Egypt. This device, which we have called the stargate, is of alien construction. It allows the transport of a person from one planet to another, almost instantaneously. There is a vast, galaxy spanning, network of these stargates. They were built by a race called the Goa'uld. This race of alien beings had, thousands of years ago, ruled on Earth. We defied them, we removed them from our planet. This race of beings, these Goa'uld, are the dominant species in the galaxy. They rule over vast empires. They have taken human beings from Earth and seeded them throughout the galaxy. These long lost brothers and sisters even now toil in slavery to their alien masters.

"This must end. We most certainly face a threat to ourselves, have no doubt of that. However there is a greater threat, and a greater potential, out there. Think of all that we have accomplished. Much of my presidency has been about lifting people out of poverty. One reason I do this is because of the great tragedy of shattered potential. How many poets starved to death, how many musicians died of dysentery, how many great thinkers have perished, never having known what they could have been?

"Our history is littered with the faded dreams of those beaten down by the exigencies of their situation. We now know that our history is but a tiny fraction of our potential. There is a multitude out there who are in desperate need of our help. They can be mobilized to our cause. We can be their salvation. We face a threat to our entire species, Earthbound or otherwise. The liberation of these people is not just vital to the preservation of ourselves now, but to the future of our race.

"A series of press releases have been published, and a website has been set up which will have more information about this situation. I will be holding a press conference in two hours to answer initial questions, and I will continue to make myself available as much as possible during the next few days.

"The goa'uld wish to destroy us. That is never going to happen. Thank you for your time."

"Dammit Skaara, we will die."

Jolen had been the most vocal in her dissent from his choices. For many days now they had wandered south, in search of a place of safety, a place of peace.

"We have no water, and little food. We have abandoned everything for nothing" Jolen said, raising her arm to indicate the endless expanse of sand that surrounded them.

Skaara thought of his sister, and surprisingly, his father. There was nothing left but to push on. They must find succor in the lands beyond. What else could they do, besides continue walking?

"If we go back, we die."

Jolen gave him a remorseful look. She knew that going back was death. She knew, just as certainly, that continuing on was death. Which was worse, the torture of slow death in the desert, or the slow death of torture from Apophis' minions? Either way, they were dead. Walking corpses, struggling through the desert for a future they knew they would never know; hopeful hopelessness, blindly chasing deceitful mirages. She left him then, in disgust and frustration. Their course was set. Whatever they did, they would surely die.

When their settlement was first recaptured, those many months ago, many had devised plans to subvert their captors. Act like a cancer, killing from the inside. Leave, and find a life apart from everything they had ever known. Stay, and lead an insurgency against the oppressors. Some had decided that to leave was best. They had devised a plan. They left caches of water in the desert. Weapons. Clothes. It was slow, and fraught with danger. Many had died, decried as subversives and executed in the town center. Some survived, cowed into subservience. Others had no part in their plans, but they listened as those who lived relayed their goals. They wished the same thing, they wished to escape the nightmare of servitude. Skaara was one of those.

They had followed his guidance, wandering from cache to cache, hoping to one day find a place where they could settle down, a place they could live free. They could not go much further before their supplies ran out. They had looked to him as a leader, as a savior. Now they looked at him with fading hope; they looked at him as the one who led them to death. All that surrounded them was red rock and sun drenched sand. Nothing lived here. They could not last much longer.

Some still believed in him. Some were desperate to believe in anything. Some were desperate to ignore the endless dark of death. Some were frantic in their attempt to find any hope of salvation. Some were even desperate enough to believe in him. Skaara watched Jolen walk away. He wished he could be absolved of responsibility, and seek the comfort of anger. He had nothing. He could only continue on, and all he had was hope.

The first to die was Karman. He fell while walking. It was another five hours until he died. "I have to go on," he said. In his delirium he fought to stand, to continue walking. Skaara himself helped to restrain him. "We must go on," were his last coherent words. Skaara wept, and refused to see anyone the rest of the night.

The next day they covered the body in the sand. They continued walking.

The next day they continued walking, and the day after. The next to die was Maraset, then L'raka, then Djaum. Skaara consoled himself with the thought that they died in delirium, never knowing the full weight of what was happening to them. In the dark of night, Skaara feared they knew exactly what was happening, and were helpless to stop it.

They covered the bodies in sand, and continued walking.

There was a spot of green. In this dun colored world, the color green meant everything. A small plant, a succulent, had sprouted from the sand. Its color, dim and faded, was everything to the small band of people. Yellow and red and sand and rock, that was all they saw. A plant, a living thing, a spot of green in the midst of desolation, was everything. For Skaara, it meant hope. For all, it meant hope, but for Skaara it meant more. He had not chosen wrong. They had not died in vain. They would survive. They would find peace.

They kept walking. The sun crept further north. On the distant horizon hills appeared. Small plants became common. Some were small and low and boxy, others were spikey and had fat leaves. They saw lizards and mice and insects. In the air a hawk circled. Some ate the small plants that grew in this place. Others chased the mice and lizards, more exuberant over signs of life than confident in catching dinner. No one died.

It was odd, Skaara thought. In the desert, when all hope seemed lost, many were unfazed with the idea of helping others. Now, though they were still close to death, there was a relative surplus of water and food, and many were less willing to give up what little they had. It was certainly little enough. It was as though dire necessity could convince some to share what little they had with others, while at the same time bare surplus reminded people that they could save, that they could keep something for themselves. I suppose, he thought, it wasn't all that different back in the village. We had little, but what little we did have, we kept. However, when someone really, truly, desperately, needed help, there was no one who would not be willing to help them. Well, there were one or two who were hesitant, but the silent condemnation of their neighbors almost always convinced them to act, to give, to help those in desperate need of help. But still … lacking such desperate need, most seemed to guard what little they had with a fierceness that could not be described. Maybe it made sense. With nothing, one could give everything and lose nothing. With little, one could give little and still lose everything. Protecting what little one has might as well be the same as protecting everything one has.

This was too much for Skaara. Though he felt the shape of these ideas he could not truly grasp them, much less articulate them. All that he knew was that he had the time, and more importantly, the energy to contemplate such things. Before, he could do nothing other than ignore the thirst and the hunger, and dwell on what he had done, what he would do, and how his choices would effect his small band of followers. Now he could consider what shape the society this small band would create. It was a luxury he had never anticipated, and one he was ill equipped to handle.

On a distant planet there existed a community of slaves. They were from a multitude of captured worlds, forced to coexist in desperation. This planet had the usual compliment of natural resources, but lacked the naquadah vital to Goa'uldian culture. While in times past it had served an essential role in the tactical layout of the Gods, it now resided near the center of the empire of Apophis. Aside from the metals that it produced, this planet was now almost entirely devoted to the growing of food.

Adom never spoke much. Most others, after their work in the fields, were either too exhausted to do anything other than collapse into the piles of straw they called a bed or felt ebullient once relieved of their daily burden. It was hard, not difficult or unpleasant, but hard, damned hard, like diamond or dolomite hard, to muster the strength needed to tend to the pitiful plots of land they were given as slaves to cultivate the food those same slaves needed to survive. What point, some said, of this cultivation, if it only meant enslavement. What point but life, others said, and the hope of a better tomorrow? Pointless, this debate was, for they were slaves, and ever had been. You only live one life, so make what joy of it you will. They would talk, and sing, and laugh even. Such communal activities were all that they had of joy. Adom spoke little, and never of his life before this place.

Not that anyone ever asked him, or the other slaves who were occasionally brought here, of their past. There is only today, there is only this place. The past is gone and dead. It served no purpose to think of it. Even if someone had asked, he would have said nothing. No one asked, and he usually kept himself apart from their nightly conversations. Some assumed that he felt disdain for them. Corvee'ay, Jakun, Ly'ora, and some few others no longer cared for him, and avoided him when possible. Others, Tara, Bau-En-Em, Pilius, thought little of Adom, of who he was. He wished to keep his distance, and they had no reason to fault or agree with him. They simply ignored him. A very few looked at him and saw pain, and despair. They would never ask him about it. There was no point in discussing the past, and if he chose to slowly drain his life away in personal misery rather than finding what little joy he could in the present, then that was his choice. They assumed that he would quickly succumb to the brutal conditions, either beaten in the field or punished at night or to simply not wake one day. It was nothing to them. They had their own problems.

Adom had never felt so alone. He was taken from his home. He was brutalized. Those who had been with him, those whom he had known on Abydos, were slowly and inexorably taken from him. His group had been divided up until there was only him left, delivered to this new planet to work until he died. He had no one. Worse than being taken from his home, worse than being taken from his friends, worse than the beatings (a mild thing, really. One becomes accustomed to pain), was the memory of freedom. He had known true happiness, he had tasted freedom. He had reached through the bars of his captivity and felt the brow of a savior; he had touched the hair of a prophet, he had held the head of a man. Daniel had left and sought freedom. Through that touch Adom had also known freedom. This moment was but passing; he would know freedom again.

Let the others here have their small joys, their conversations, their songs. He would not participate. He could offer them nothing, only take from them what little they had.

Adom had become a revenant. He was hollow, and empty. Maybe others saw pain and anguish. He felt nothing. Maybe he might feel the whispers of emotion, of anger, of pain, but they were nothing, small sparks in the emptiness of his soul. He was broken, and felt nothing. He worked, he ate, he slept. He thought of defiance, not to win, but to die. If he stood up to his captors, if he defied them, they would surely kill him. They would end his suffering. He never did, though, and hated himself for it. Suicide requires a certain amount of passion, and he could feel nothing. He could only exist, and hope for death.

 _Years ago, back when I still got high, I would turn off the TV and imagine what it would be like if Earth united to face the Goa'uld. The Dedalus was a secret thing, concocted by one nation in secret. What could we do if everyone was fighting?!_

 _Global unity is often a desire of those giggling on a couch and succumbing to the effects of THC._

 _But that was the seed. I wanted to see Earth fight. Not a secretive, small subset of America, but all of humanity, fight. I wanted to imagine what we all would do, could do, together._

 _I lay on my couch, imagining battles. Eventually it became too much, and I had to start writing it down._

 _It started as sketches in a notebook. Primitive ideas. They were fleshed out, and I started typing. Originally my story took place after the season one finale. I just wanted to get to the battles. Post season one seemed like a good place to start. I got ten thousand words into it, and realized that I really needed to start from the beginning. I had to write the prequel to disclosure._

 _I had an end point in mind. Big battles, all of Earth united. But to get to that point, I could not simply insert my story into the canon narrative. I had to create a new canon. And so, my story took a new shape, starting with a blank page. What to call it? I dunno, it's about public knowledge, and the first few chapters focused on the idea of trust. Might as well call it that._

 _I wrote that novel. It had a rather awkward title. Whatever._

 _The story became something other than what I expected. It had more interpersonal intrigue than I expected. It was also slower than I wanted. I figured I could just write a bit about how we got here, then just launch into all the cool stuff I had imagined._

 _I was wrong._

 _By the end of the novel, the story had become its own beast. Characters were in unexpected places, the plot had gone right to hell. I still had the vision of a united Earth fighting aliens, but I didn't know how to get there._

 _Looking back, I think writing smaller stories about individual suffering would have been more my forte. My métier. Something with a French accent, anyway. A lot of my most engaging couch ideas were predicated on personal stories. They were grand, but rooted in individuals. Writing my first story really highlighted for me that idea. That individual stories matter._

 _My first story wasn't just set up for my real story. It was a story of itself. It became a different beast. Having become, it changed what would have followed. I did not know how to write the follow up. I did not know how to write the next chapter. I had the memory of ideas, but they did not match with what I had written._

 _I am thirty thousand words into the sequel. The sequel to a novel I never intended to write. I do not know how to write the sequel._

 _I have read my first story, having given it a rest of about two years. I still feel compelled to regard it in editorial terms. Correcting grammar, suggesting better ways to present an idea._

 _I am thirty thousand words into a sequel I don't know how to write. At the end of my last story, I realized that I needed to understand geopolitical realities in order to write a convincing story. Understanding basic political realities in my own country is difficult enough. Trying to accurately portray multicultural reactions to a truly shattering revelation? I ran away. That was too hard. I didn't even bothering putting up the pretense of research. What do I know? I'm just some rando typing on a computer. I have no qualifications in international politics, nor intercultural empathy, and not even in understanding my own people. How could I write a convincing story involving an international revelation that would require intimate understanding of nuanced cultural predispositions affecting individuals whose stories I would have to know?_

 _I couldn't. I can't._

 _While there were many comments on my last story, I would like to highlight a comment made by "TheOldMasters". They said that I could not have my fictional president just make a speech disclosing such a monumental incident without first briefing other world leaders._

 _That resonated with me. It's logical. It makes sense. But then I thought about it. Let's say I'm the leader of France, or Lithuania, or Cambodia. I receive a message from the only remaining superpower. Their leader tells me that aliens exist, they are technologically superior to us, and they are at war with us. And then that leader asks me to remain silent, and let him break that news._

 _It doesn't matter what my relationship with that leader is, nor what my nation's relationship with them is, I'm not just going to automatically knuckle under in the face of that revelation. The only choice for the American leader is surprise. Rip the bandage off, and deal with the fall out later. No national leader would allow another national leader leeway in this matter._

 _TheOldMasters had a good point. I feel that a startling speech was better. I did not pursue their idea. However, there was something they said that stuck with me, and even intimidated me. "…portray the very damaging fallout from this."_

 _They actually said much more in their comment, but it's that last sentence fragment (fragmented by me, not them) that caused me the most worry._

 _I do not understand politics. I certainly do not understand international politics. I definitely do not understand the nuanced perspectives that cumulatively create a cultural perspective that informs a politician to act in such a way as to integrate with other cultures and still remain faithful to their origins. What would the revelation of the stargate mean to someone, whether individually or politically? I haven't the faintest._

 _The story I have written does not deal with that. It should. In order to be a full story, a true and real story, it needs to. I doubt that I am the person who can write that story. I have thirty thousand words. Maybe they're the seed of a story._


	2. A Burden Opportune

"You, of course, will have to shoulder much responsibility while I am away."

"Yes, my lord." Naunet had quickly buried her remorse for her fallen pupil. She mourned for him, had even wept for him in the privacy of her quarters. Then she moved on. The past was over and done, and dwelling on it served no purpose. Things had moved quickly after their failure to capture Earth. Apophis had put so much hope into that victory that he now had to scramble to recoup. Cronus had been pushed back, yes, but at great expense. They could not keep him contained, and he was quickly regaining lost territory. Her technological advances helped them some, but it was not nearly enough.

Apophis had been pushing her, forcing her to pursue a more aggressive role. Defense was easy, relative to offense. Yes, there was idiocy that had to be avoided with defense, but really, to succeed in defense was most often a standard implementation of pre-existing strategic ideas. Legendary stories of defense almost always ended in defeat. They held out longer than expected. They caused casualties far beyond what was expected. Those were legends. The vast majority of the time defense was simple; victory in defense had more to do with supply and utilization of resources than tactical brilliance. She could defend, but could she attack?

Apophis had pulled her away from pure defense, had taken from her the technological pursuits that had previously defined her. More importantly he had taken Abydos from her. Yes, she still had control of the planet, but his constant demands on her had drawn her away from the planet that she called home. Of course her subordinates were more than capable of overseeing the administration of that world, still it cut her to have to leave it in order to fulfill her new responsibilities.

She found a new joy. Once she began to see offensive patterns as puzzles to be solved they began to interest her. Sadiki had cultivated a group of lieutenants that were excellent at their jobs. She merely assumed his role as captain. There were a few grumbles, a bit of recalcitrance. Sadiki had been a natural leader in battle, and a superb tactician. She could never hope to match him.

At first she had attempted to be forceful, to lead in a manner similar to Apophis; gruff, certain, and imperious. A few days of this taught her that not only was this the wrong approach with this group of people, she also realized that she had much to learn from them. She soon and subtly changed her approach. She asked questions rather than demanded action. She sought advice. She phrased her words to indicate her respect for them. At no point did she allow them to think they were her superior in rank, but still deferred to them in battle. Her strength was in strategy, not tactics. She knew that she would never be great in either regard, and thus delegated a fair amount of responsibility to her subordinates. In time they came to understand her. They learned how to work with her, and her with them. Still she knew that it would be some time before they truly respected her, before she had truly earned their respect.

Apophis observed her during this time, offering counsel and explaining the difference between military and civilian leadership. On Abydos she had operated by making her uncertainties clear. She had always been very open with her team, allowing them a degree of familiarity that many goa'uld and jaffa would have scoffed at. Yet it was this very familiarity, this open honesty, which made her team strong. They came to know her, and knowing her, loved her. It was, and always would be, difficult for her to express certainty when she felt uncertain. Her accomplishments on Abydos validated her method. But when commanding others to fight and die she must _be_ certain. No second guessing, no hesitation. Strength was often determined not by being always right, but by being always certain.

Fortunately for her at this point in the war with Cronus the greatest concern was defense. They did not have the manpower to press the attack. They were stretched thin. The strategy she devised with Apophis was a coordinated series of retreats, allowing Cronus to recapture the planets that he had lost to them in the months previous. They would not make this easy, of course, and were constantly harrassing him on other planets. They wanted to keep him unsure, off-balance. They wanted to force him to commit troops to defend other planets so that when he did march to retake his former colonies he would not have as many forces as he would have desired, and would hopefully be slow in attempting his assaults. Naunet also made sure that any planet he did capture would be of little use to him, at least until he had repaired the damage done and reseeded the planet with human slaves. She would, of course, attempt to relocate as many humans as she could. There was no sense in wasting a resource. She also ensured that no humans were left alive on the planet to be used to rebuild the infrastructure which she had destroyed.

During this transition period Apophis had negotiated a concordance with a certain matrilineal line. This was the same line that had produced the majority of Cronus' offspring, and thus by breeding into this line Apophis had made it more difficult, politically at least, for Cronus to move against them. If two matrilineal siblings were facing each other in battle they had a third option, besides conquest and surrender. They could submit themselves to arbitration. And if a patriarch pursued the destruction of another matrilinealy linked patriarch with reckless abandon, then that patriarch risked losing access to that matrilineal line and thus the accumulated genetic knowledge of that line. It would complicate matters for Cronus, while the culmination of the concordance with Apophis would take many years to mature. Losing that matrilineal line was a far greater loss for Cronus than it would be for Apophis.

It was the act of sealing that pact which pulled Apophis away from the fight, and left Naunet in charge of the war effort for the time that Apophis was away. It was a great burden and a great honor for her. Never before had she considered the possibility that she would be responsible for the fate of an entire culture. It was exhilirating, and awakened within her ambitions which she never before realized that she had. 

...

Shau're worked until the sunset, as she did every day. As darkness grew and she became unable to see her work she packed up her things and made a note of what she would need for the following day. It was an endless pattern, with little to break the monotony. Every few days she would go into the village center and acquire whatever was needed at home. Food, water, cloth to be made into garments (oh how she loathed that. Her job was to sew and craft textiles. Doing so at home was necessary, but home was also the only escape she had from the drudgery) and any other necessities that might be required. This was also the only time she spent with others.

Before, when they were free, she had spent much time in the markets at the center of the village, dragging Daniel from one person to another, proud of her husband and joyous in the community she was a part of. They had made something great, and now it was in ruins. There still remained a semblance of that life, contained and limited though it was. The market stalls were gone, replaced by depots of food and materials. No longer could she peruse the wares of her fellow Abydonians. Instead there was simply her allotment of required goods. Nevertheless, the center of the village was still the heart of the community. It was there that people gathered, it was there that they could congregate. She was glad when her duties required her to go there, but she did not linger.

Her obligation was to her father. He needed her. She was the one who cooked the evening meal, and when, on the days she was forced to go to the village center, she would return home to find that her father had not bothered to eat, and had merely trudged off to bed. She would cook a meal for herself, and eat it alone. The next morning she awoke to the sounds of jaffa blaring their horns, waking her from her slumber and shattering her dreams. They often broke their fast in silence before returning to work. Her to her garments, her father to the pyramid.

One day bled into the next, and each day she renewed her fight against despair. Without her brother the ragged tent which she called home seemed empty. Her father never spoke of him, but she could tell how his absence wounded Kasuuf. His depression, which before had been constant yet mild, was now all consuming. He was listless, withdrawn. There seemed to be no spark of life left to him. He often went to bed early, leaving her many hours of darkness to contemplate her fate in silence and solitude.

It had taken her awhile to realize that she no longer wondered when Daniel would return, but if he would. He had been gone so long. In the long lonely hours at home, after she had tried and failed (again!) to rouse her father from his pain, she could usually push such thoughts aside. Harder to avoid were thoughts of her brother. She hoped that he had escaped, that he had found peace out in the wilderness. It was something like pride that she felt, knowing that he had killed a jaffa, knowing that he had escaped. It was also painful, knowing that she would never see him again, that her father had lost everything when he lost his son. Hardest of all, in the darkness and in the silence, was the idea that her father would not be in such pain had it been her to kill and run, had it been her who was absent. 

...

"Well, that ought to make the morning papers," Daniel said in an absurdly cheery voice.

Sam looked at him with embarrassed uncertainty. "I … uhm … I guess?"

"Isn't it weird to know that world leaders around the, uh, world, will be reading the things that you wrote?" he continued with impassioned curiosity. While Sam and Jack and Teal'c and the others had been off on other worlds, saving this world, Daniel had been back at the SGC. Perhaps this was what allowed him to see the dark humor in their situation.

"I don't know. I mean, most of the stuff I wrote was for my peers, not random world leaders." President Hayes had sent out packets containing a detailed but concise rundown of their activities over the previous year. Included in this packet were a few emails and memos written by one Samantha Carter. She had never written them for anyone except those whom she knew personally. The idea that those same emails and memos were now common knowledge across the globe was not exactly frightening, but certainly terrifying. How could anyone really be expected to know her from these sporadic and idiosyncratic correspondences? A partial and incomplete study of her life was suddenly on display, without her knowledge or consent.

"Yeah, but still, people, important people, are reading your words and taking them seriously. Isn't that cool?" Daniel had at least been given the opportunity to edit himself to some extent before being thrust into the global spotlight. Admittedly it wasn't a lot of opportunity. He had less than a day after the President contacted him in Hammond's office to prepare himself for the revelation of the Stargate. But he was good with words, and a quick thinker. He was able to curate his own correspondence, and was given the opportunity to write an explanation of himself and his actions. She had not.

"Hah! Cool. I suppose it is. Scary, too." She looked at him with both confidence and questioning. "I mean, what if what I said was, I dunno, mis-interpreted? How can I truly explain myself when observed by billions?" She said.

"Well, uh, you could do, like, a speaking tour. Go on Conan, maybe give a Ted talk."

"Yeah, I'm sure that would work out great.' A deep breath She tried to suppress her own feelings, and failed. "At least you got the chance to edit yourself!" She cried with indignation. She tried to define her outburst in terms of logic, and find an argument that satisfied her previous statement. Fuck that, a dark and prescient part of her said. Kill him! "At least you had the chance. At least you had some measure of control. I had nothing but after action reports, written for my superiors, not some random civilian." She took a deep breath, and repressed the urge to kill. Calmer. No, louder! "Dammit Daniel, can you truly think of no one but yourself?" She stormed off, indignation, shame, and that undefinable feeling of stepping outside of your bounds filling her, driving her.

"I was only trying to help," his dying voice said as she stalked off down the hall.

'Dammit, Samantha,' she thought. 'You shouldn't have said that.' She turned a corner, not really thinking of where she was going. 'The hell did I just think? He's an asshole.' She turned another corner. A dark part of her soul chimed in, "Yes. He is nothing. You are everything." A long corridor stretched before her. 'I don't slap people down. That's never been me.' She walked to the end of the corridor. 'Maybe you should change yourself?' an insidious part of her asked as she turned another corner. This led her to the elevators. A guard was there to hear her say, "Dammit."

"What," he said, putting down his newspaper.

"I wasn't talking to you," she replied, and turned around. 'Dammit, I shouldn't have said that', she thought to herself. She returned to her office, and focused on her duties. 

...

Teal'c sat alone in his quarters, in his cell.

I've often been confused by the idea that some sounds are voiceless. Does a voiceless word have any meaning? Does a voiceless phoneme have any worth? Perhaps a glottal stop has value, but what is that value without context? Every example I can think of is within the paradigm of voiced phonemes. A stop surrounded by voices. Is it omission? What meaning can absence have, without context? The elision of sound, dependent upon the sounds surrounding it? Is it the elision of a vowel, itself a sliding (elision) of sound? How many elisions are conscript to context? That the elision is not inherent to the (often) vowel, but to the following consonant? How often is the shifting vowel, the shifting context (conscript, conflict) represented in the symbolic nature of written language? That without vocal representation all written representation is meaningless; that without physical manifestation all action is void. Thoughts without meaning. Words without meaning. Perhaps all you see is an attempt at self-definition.

I am not myself without you.

I have chosen to ignore my previous thoughts. Is that elision or simply righteous rejection? Do I move on, or do I remain trapped within the confines of meaning? Who am I? Is my voice voiceless, or does it ring from the rafters? I do not know what I'm sliding to, which I suppose eliminates one paradigm. I am definite, a voice among (for?) the voiceless. I am the fricative, the glottal stop, the unvoiced voiced. I am jaffa. I am the shol'va.

Teal'c sat alone in his room and contemplated the silence that surrounds him.


End file.
